Insomnia
by LetsHaveDinner
Summary: One night, Sherlock goes to John because he can't sleep. The next evening, John does the same to Sherlock. Pre-slash
1. Chapter 1

"John?"

He woke suddenly. It was almost as though John had been trained to wake the second he heard Sherlock's voice. Rubbing his face, he sat up in bed, searching for the source of the voice. A tall, lean silhouette was stood just to the right of the door.

"Sherlock? What is it?" he asked.

"Oh!" Sherlock said. If John had been more alert, he probably would have sensed a mildly embarrassed inflection in his voice. "Nothing, I wanted to know whether you were awake or not."

John rubbed his face again, becoming slightly more aware of his surroundings; the fog of sleepiness was very slowly lifting. "Well, I am now. What was it?"

"I... can't sleep." Sherlock stated slowly.

Somewhere in the back of Johns mind he knew the truth. Sherlock never _tried_ to sleep. He would sleep when he needed it. Slight insomnia, John was sure, would never really affect him.

"Nightmares?" John asked, without thinking. He knew that Sherlock suffered from nightmares. Sometimes, he would wake from his sleep with a shriek that would ring through the entire flat. It made John feel sick to hear. Sherlock had seen so many things, yet it was only sleep that told John that his best friend had a true fear of something.

Once, Sherlock had fallen asleep on the sofa. John noticed his constant flinches and the look of pure terror drawn across his sleeping face. It affected John more than he consciously realised. Sherlock always seemed fearless, so whatever had been haunting his dreams, John thought, was surely horrific.

Johns question was answered with no reply. A yawn overcame John, reminding him of the deep sleep he had just been woken from. The rest, John doesn't remember. All he knows is that the next morning, Sherlock's slender arm was resting on his hip. Sherlock's breath was tickling the hairs on the back of his neck and sending shivers down his spine. Sherlock's knee was resting against the back of his own leg.

He edged out of the bed, so as not to wake his friend. He looked at Sherlock's face. Not flinching. Not looking the slightest bit scared. He looked content. Safe. It made John happy.

John realised that he didn't really want to be out of bed, after all. He wanted to be curled back in bed, sleeping next to a man who had no concept of "personal space".

Smiling to himself, he promised that if it should ever happen again, he would stay a little longer.

The next evening, John really couldn't sleep. He was preoccupied, listening for any signs of Sherlock being awake. There was nothing. He wasn't even sure whether Sherlock would actually be trying to sleep at all. His sleeping habits were sporadic at best. Curiosity finally getting the best of him, John got out of bed, and made his way to the downstairs of 221b. He could see the lights of the living room turned off and a tiny sliver of light was coming from the gap between Sherlock's bedroom door and the hallway. It didn't take the deductive powers of Sherlock Holmes to know where he was. After a moment of hesitation, John slowly pushed open Sherlock's bedroom door.

Sherlock was in sat up in bed, using his laptop, the bluish light illuminating his face and making him look paler than he already was. John noted how... _alien_... it made him look. John also couldn't help noticing that Sherlock's chest was exposed. As far as John could tell, Sherlock was naked. John could feel his cheeks reddening at the sight.

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow. John shrugged, his heart pounding. "Can't sleep. Mind if I join you?"

Sherlock smiled, "no. It's the least I can do," he said, moving from the middle of the bed to the left side. This movement exposed Sherlock's legs, and John noticed that Sherlock was in fact wearing pyjama bottoms. A slight giggle overcame him. _As if I was preparing to get in bed with a naked Sherlock!_ He thought to himself.

Sherlock appeared to be aware of John's train of thought and smiled too. John got into the bed. He was used to sleeping on the left, not the right. And he certainly wasn't used to his sheets smelling so much like Sherlock. It was strange, but John honestly couldn't say it was unpleasant.

"You know about the nightmares" Sherlock stated, closing his laptop, and placing it on the bedside table. The room was now completely dark. John felt the change in the mattress springs as Sherlock lay down on the bed.

"I've heard you shout when you're asleep. And..." John hesitated. His instincts were telling him that it would be a difficult subject for Sherlock. He'd never seen any other sign of true weakness in his friend before. "And... whenever I've seen you sleep, you always look... terrified."

Sherlock didn't respond. John began to wonder whether he'd outstayed his welcome. He began to wonder which would be less awkward- to stay or to leave. Mid way through his thoughts on the subject, Sherlock finally replied.

"My Father," he stated quietly.

"What?" John asked with a start.

My Father. He wasn't a particularly nice man," Sherlock sighed. "He... had a short temper; prone to lashing out. I was sixteen years old. I walked in on my Father as he was about to attack my Mother. It made me so... angry." Sherlock's voice wavered slightly. He took a deep breath and continued. "I didn't know what to do. I couldn't talk to my Mother about it, and Mycroft was at Uni. I wanted to hurt him and it was the only thing I could think of. I worked out that been having an affair. I'd known it for weeks. So, when I was alone with him, I told him. I suppose I planned on blackmailing him. It was probably one of the stupidest things I'd done in my life. He lost his temper, almost hospitalised me, and told me not to come home." Sherlock stopped speaking, and John's brain thinking through the scenario.

_How could someone do that to their child? To their wife?_ It made him feel sick. "Jesus. And you... You dream about it?" John asked knowing the answer already.

"Yes" Sherlock said. The image of a sixteen year old Sherlock being beaten to a pulp couldn't get out of Johns mind, and he wondered whether he'd ever be able to sleep again.

Sherlock coughed into the darkness, "but I was fine last night. And I think I'll be fine tonight."


	2. Chapter 2

Days passed and parts of Sherlock's revelation kept returning in his thoughts. He hadn't returned to Sherlock's bed since, mainly because Sherlock didn't seem to need much sleep lately. A small case came up, taking up most of Sherlock's time and he put off both eating and showering, therefore, John decided that he'd probably given up on sleeping, too. Two nights of sleep in a row for Sherlock must have been enough to fuel him for a few days, anyway.

Life remained largely the same. John felt cautious about bringing their previous conversation up. In fact, he wondered whether or not Sherlock even remembered what had been said. He was treating John the same way that he always had. John realised he'd began thinking about what Sherlock had told him. Often at the most inopportune moments, like when the man at the till in Asda asked for the money for the shopping, causing an embarrassing moment where John had to ask him to repeat what he had said... twice.

John got dressed and looked into the mirror. He didn't even know how he'd got this far. Somehow, he'd managed to ask a woman out to dinner. Admittedly, she was a friend of Mikes, so they already knew each other a little. But the fact that he had somehow charmed her, and successfully asked her out for dinner seemed to be some small miracle in his mind. Especially lately.

Marie was a petite young woman with dark brown skin and bright, inquisitive eyes. She was the CEO of a large shipping business, and always seemed to carry an air of professionalism everywhere she went. As John met her outside of the small restaurant, he reminded himself that he needed to concentrate on the beautiful woman he would be spending the evening with, and not his self-diagnosed sociopathic flatmate.

Marie was nice. Refreshing to be around, even. She was a strong, confident woman. She refused to let John pay the bill, and conversation flowed freely with her. "So," she asked, after sipping a glass of very expensive red wine, "you've got a flatmate, right?"

John felt a twist in his stomach as the brought up the subject. "Yeah. He's... practically a child," he says, a smile breaking out on his face against his will. "Worse, even. But... uh... I don't really feel like talking about him tonight, if that's okay."

Marie laughed out loud, "fair enough" she said, ordering yet another bottle of premium wine and filling John's glass. John was secretly grateful that she insisted on paying her half of the bill. The wine alone was probably twice what he was planning to spend for the evening. Plus, there was something sexy about complete and utter independence.

The dinner passed by pleasantly, topics such as their allegiance to football teams, recent films, music they both liked, and even a little bit of politics were discussed in detail. She had the same views as him on almost everything. He couldn't believe his luck. _A woman like this comes along once in a lifetime,_ he found himself thinking after a few more glasses of wine.

As the dinner came to a close, both John and Marie had drank much more than they had planned to. In fact, John didn't even know how they managed it, but a four bottles of wine had been consumed. John found himself insisting on walking Marie home. Though to be fair, it was more of a stumble to Marie's small flat. John couldn't help but notice just how... _tidy_ everything was in the flat. There were pictures of her and her friends scattered almost everywhere, and magazines practically everywhere. But there was a distinct lack of skulls, and other miscellaneous body parts. A lack of bullets in the wall, a lack of graffiti. He seemed to have forgotten that most people didn't actually live that way.

Marie threw herself down on the sofa, slightly violently pulling her heels off of her feet, and throwing them across the room. She laughed as she watched the left one bounce off of the wall. John sat down next to her, giggling along with her. He was half worried that the second one would somehow come in contact with his face, and he was half relieved that the first one had just landed on the carpet.

Marie hiccupped and John looked at her, mildly surprised at the noise. "I like you, John!" she said loudly. John grinned back.

"Well, I like you too, Marie!" he replied.

Marie stood up suddenly, and grabbed Johns hand as she stood up. "If you like me, then come to bed with me" she replied. John looked at her in surprise. He wasn't totally sure whether he'd taken that comment as it was intended.

"Wha...what?" he replied, trying to focus on her face.

She smiled at him, and pulled him, so he was face to face with her. Snaking her arms around his neck, she reached up and kissed him. Her lips were soft, and he could taste the smell of wine and vanilla lip-gloss. It was a nice taste and John fell into the kiss, letting his tongue and lips explore her mouth. He felt her hand hold onto his, as she broke the kiss, and pulled him towards her wasn't completely sure that he wasn't dreaming what was happening. All he knew was that he had no plans of returning to Baker Street this evening.

The next morning, John woke with a jolt. He felt his heart racing as he looked around the room to find the source of the noise that appeared to have woken him. It was just then when he remembered he wasn't actually in Baker Street. The room was too large, and too... feminine. The sheets smelled like a strong perfume, not at all like the cheap, flowery detergent that he uses on his own sheets. Something all the more... _mature_. The walls were a simple cream colour, and so were the sheets. In fact, the only colour in the room came from the beech floorboards, and the turquoise accents spread through the room- the rug, the lamp, the curtains.

"Oh!" a feminine voice says with a laugh, "sorry if I woke you. My TV seemed to have the volume on maximum for some reason!" Marie says in the doorway. She was wearing a large white shirt, which exaggerated her long legs.

John laughed. "No worries. I need to be up soon. My flatmate would probably assume I've been murdered, or something if I don't get back soon."

Marie smiles and turns to leave the room, leaving John to get dressed in privacy. As much as he tried, he just couldn't wipe the grin off of his face. He couldn't believe that someone as wonderful as Marie would even think for a second that he was worth anything. But there he was, in her bed. Naked.

"I... uh... don't suppose you'd fancy another date, would you?" John asked, as he watched her pick up her heels from the floor. Her body went slightly rigid as he asked, and he wondered whether he shouldn't have said anything after all.

"Yes! I mean... I'd like that, actually."

John nodded, "right," feeling like an awkward teenager, he moved towards the door, "see you soon, then!"

"Wait!" Marie said quickly, rushing over to John, and kissing his lips. "See you soon," she said. John noted that she was wearing a different flavoured lip product this time. A much more slippery one, which smelt distinctly of cherries.

John couldn't help but grin as he walked all the way home. He didn't need a cab when he felt this good. Even the hangover, which he always seemed to get after a night of drinking wine didn't seem be manifesting.

Unfortunately, returning to 221B Baker Street meant two things for John. A very bored flatmate, and the smell of an extremely noxious gas lingering around the flat. A souvenir from one of Sherlock's boredom fuelled experiments, probably.

John entered the flat as quietly as possible, hoping that Sherlock was somehow busy, which would allow him to avoid any potentially awkward questions, and shower in peace. Such an aim was useless, however. Particularly when living with someone as observant as Sherlock Holmes.

As he made his way to the bathroom, he heard the sound of the violin coming from the living room. He noted how the instrument didn't seem to have been played until he came in, and somewhere in his mind, he wondered if Sherlock was actually a little bit worried about where John had been all night. But, then he reminded himself that this was Sherlock Holmes, and that Sherlock Holmes didn't _do_ worrying.

Once he'd showered and dressed, he went into the living room, to find his flatmate playing the violin as expected. When the tune came to an end, he turned and nodded at his flatmate. "John," he said, politely.

John smiled up at the man stood in front of the window. "What's this smell, then? Some kind of experiment?"

"Yes," Sherlock responds, stiffly.

"Oh, right, going to elaborate on that?" John asked.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Oh, is that right? Brilliant." John said, the smell was starting to irritate his nose slightly.

Sherlock placed his violin on his shoulder, and raised the bow. He began to play a tune. It was quicker this time, slightly more dramatic even. "Aren't you going to ask how my date with Marie went?" John asked over the noise.

Sherlock stopped playing and looked at John. "Why should I ask? I know how it went. Despite the fact that you drank a large amount of wine last night, and appear to show no signs of a hangover, there is the highly suggestive fact that you showered just as you came in, rather than the evening, like you normally do. It suggests to me that you had a... pleasant time," Sherlock said quickly.

John raised his eyebrows. He wasn't completely comfortable with Sherlock deducing him, even after all the time they'd spent together. He didn't mind him doing it to others, but it just seemed like something incredibly intimate to experience on a one to one level. Plus, he was still in awe of the simple reasoning behind Sherlock's deductions. John always thought occasionally that if he'd have been born in any other era, he would have been tried as a witch.

"Well, you know. The normal way is to just ask. It's more polite, too." John states, the smell of the gas helping his headache manifest.

"Normal? Polite? It's like you don't even know me," Sherlock states, playing at random on his violin.

"I need sleep," John said, rubbing his now pounding head. The alcohol, the smell of the flat and something that John couldn't put his finger on was taking it's toll on John's system. Johns fingers begin to tingle, and he starts feeling light headed. He's overcome by the urge to get to bed. He watches as Sherlock puts his violin down and rushes towards him. Sherlock is saying something. Something that John can't hear. He tries to tell Sherlock to speak up, but his voice seems to be lost.

The next thing John experiences is blackness.


End file.
